🔗 Share this article

It stands as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply